“ From the same to the same ,” said M. Gillenormand, bursting with laughter. “I know what it is. A billet-doux.”
“Ah! let us read it!” said the aunt.
And she put on her spectacles. They unfolded the paper and read as follows:—
For my son.—
The Emperor made me a Baron on the battlefield of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of course.
The feelings of father and daughter cannot be described. They felt chilled as by the breath of a death’s-head. They did not exchange a word.
Only,